Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
His grin is immediate. “Yes, ma’am.”
EPILOGUE 2: JAXSON
The vibration of my phone on the nightstand is a dull, rhythmic intrusion into the heavy silence of the bedroom. I’m deep in the ritual of a pre-game nap, my body hovering in that suspended state of relaxation. Usually, it takes a cannon blast to wake me, but this sound is different. It’s the specific ringtone I’ve assigned to Harper. I’m actually expecting her call. It’s her last week of work before her maternity leave begins, so I had a huge arrangement of wildflowers delivered to her office.
I fumble for the device, my eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the screen. I don’t even look at the time. I just swipe the green icon and press it to my ear.
"Jax?" Harper’s voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of something sharp and urgent beneath the clinical calm. That wakes me the fuck up. "It’s happening. My water just broke, and things are moving fast. I’m on my way up to labor and delivery."
My heart jumps into my throat. I’m off the bed before I’ve even processed the words, my adrenaline spiking with enough force to make my fingertips tingle.
"I’m coming," I say, my voice sounding thick and unfamiliar. "I’ll be there in five minutes."
I’m halfway down the hall of our lakeside home before I realize I’m still barefoot, clutching a single sneaker like it’s a sacred relic. I don’t go back for the other one. I even forget to grab my keys from the hook—thank God for the keyless driving app in our new SUV. I’m a blur of motion, a frantic, one-shoed maniac sprinting toward the garage, my mind racing through a checklist of what we prepared for.
The drive to Seattle General is a frantic haze. In a supreme act of kindness, I call my brother-in-law. “What do you want, dickhead?” His greeting almost causes me to hang up. Fucker.
“My wife is in labor,” I grumble. “Thought you’d like to know.” I hang up on the fucker. Let him do what he wants with the info.
The rest of the ride to the hospital is a haze of afternoon traffic. After I pull into a spot in the parking garage, I shoot a quick text to my coach, letting him know I won’t be on the ice tonight. Something much more important has all of my focus tonight. Then I text Ryan and let him know we’re at the hospital. He texts back almost immediately that he’ll be over after the game. I’m tempted to send a snarky comment, but I don’t have the time to fuck with him. Instead, I send him a thumbs-up and rush into the hospital. I need to get to my girl.
I find her in the delivery suite, her face pale but her eyes fixed on me with a clarity that grounds my spiraling panic. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her knuckles white as she grips the railing. The room is a quiet hum of monitors and the soft footsteps of nurses who move with a practiced, rhythmic efficiency I usually admire, but right now, they're just background noise to the sound of Harper’s breathing.
"That was fast," she wheezes, her attempt at banter falling short as another contraction ripples through her. "Why do you only have on one shoe?"
I look down at my feet, the single sneaker an absurd testament to my unraveling. "I’m trying out a new look. Very avant-garde. I thought I’d call it ‘first time dad chic’."
I move to her side, sliding my hand into hers. Her grip is brutal, a crushing force that would make my teammates wince, but I welcome it. This is my crease now. This is the only save that matters. I lean in, pressing my forehead against hers, letting my own breathing slow until it matches the jagged rhythm of hers.
"I've got you," I whisper, the words feeling like a vow. "We’re going to do this together."
“Says the man who doesn’t have a buzz saw cutting through his center right this moment.” She winces and grips my hand harder.
The hours that follow are the most grueling game I’ve ever played. There are no periods, no whistles, no breaks in the action. It’s a marathon of pain and endurance that makes a triple-overtime playoff game look like a light skate. I’m not the star tonight; I’m the backup, the anchor, the steady presence she needs when the waves of labor threaten to pull her under.
"I can't," she gasps, her hair matted with sweat, her hazel eyes clouded with exhaustion. "Jax, it's too much. I'm so tired."
I press a cool cloth to her forehead, my heart aching with a third-level intensity I didn't know I possessed. It’s not just love; it’s a profound, terrifying respect. "You can. You're the strongest person I know."